


Mortal Love

by Doitsuki



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Dark Fantasy, Gold Sickness, M/M, Mild Kink, Murder, OOC, Squick, Will add tags as this progresses, dubcon, noncon, oh god I'm so sorry for this, yeah there's more
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-12 00:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3337361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doitsuki/pseuds/Doitsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a present-tense writing exercise.<br/>Takes place during the BOTFA that is presented during the movie.<br/>Thorin is nuts and it breaks apart more lives than he can even begin to think of.<br/>^basically the whole plot</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Self

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. Everything that can go wrong goes wrong. There's snuff, madness, one confused Thranduil who just wants this all to end and torture for anyone who likes Bagginshield. Not looking for criticism at the moment ;v;

Thranduil gazes bleakly at the Lonely Mountain, which he reluctantly admits has more company than him. Thorin has holed himself up and word is that the Arkenstone is all he cares for now. He does not think of the agreement made the day Thranduil released him from the dungeons, remembers not a single kind glance nor gentle touch. The benevolence of Mirkwood's King is lost on him just as everything else fades away in his mad lust for power. The dwarves know he is their King. He has always been, ever they have respected him for his leadership and strength. But he has become fixated upon proving it.   
  
Thranduil sighs, a soft and wordless expression of the inexplicable anguish he feels inside. He does not think these emotions are right, those that make him want to knock down the walls of Erebor and hold Thorin, and tell him everything will be okay. That he is valued, important, precious. That he is loved. Thranduil knows all too well how it feels to be _not good enough_. He does not think Thorin deserves such burdens in his mortal life.   
  
Thorin paces with brows knit and shadows dancing across his face. His peripheral vision catches the glint of recently-polished gold, and he knows the candle holders on the wall are only there to be eye catching distractions in hopes that maybe he will stare for a while and not scream any longer. His hair is lit with a soft golden glow, yet the darkness remains upon his face. It is in his eyes, sunken and with great loathing for so many things he cannot begin to count. It is in the thin line his pursed lips make, the deep growl that rises in his throat every time he hears the clink of wealth and wants to ask for his birthright.   
  
"Where is the Arkenstone..?" he mutters, looking up to the three candles which would have shrunk into the wall had they been sentient. His cold blue eyes narrow in further question, as if he expects an answer. He is alone.   
  
The hour is late and Bilbo is walking from the treasure room when he spots Thorin lurking in a corner. A small, stifled sound comes from him and seems to echo until it reaches Bilbo's sharp ears. The hobbit tilts his head to the side for just a second before he approaches. Thorin is laughing quietly to himself, at what Bilbo does not know.   
_It is absurd,_ Thorin thinks. Long had he striven for exactly this - Kingship in his halls, floors of gold and loyal dwarves at his side. He had everything he sought but still he wanted more. MORE. _So much more_. And someone had taken it from him, one person and one only. Or perhaps they had worked with someone else to undermine him, their rightful King, the son of Thrain, son of Thror...   
It does not cross Thorin's mind, not once, that the Arkenstone could be lost beneath the piles of gold so vast and great it was near impossible to sift through it all. Reason and madness do not go hand in hand.   
  
His fingers curl around Bilbo's throat, and he wonders when they had grown so close.   
"Tell me, Master Baggins..." he breathes, voice rich in want yet edged with desperation "Where is it?"  
Bilbo's eyes are wide and choking gasps shudder from his lips - this should not happen, he trusts Thorin, he admires him, he does not want to see him die...  
Thorin is already dead. He has said it himself.   
  
Dwalin silently listens to the exchange from behind a pillar carved with intricate geometric patterns. He is still, arms folded and fingers digging into flesh as he forces restraint upon his agitated body. He remembers Thorin telling him to not speak to him as if he were still "Thorin Oakenshield", a lowly dwarf lord. The mind of the one he respected is lost. And he does not know who the King of Erebor even is.   
  
Fíli weaves gentle and careful braids into his brother's hair. Kíli is sitting upon a large ornamented treasure chest, big enough to fit one dwarf and a few valuables in. His tired feet are without shoes and dipping toes into a cool heap of gold coins, coins he has examined and determined to be exactly the same as the other millions in this room. He does not want to search any longer. He wants to sleep, walk hand in hand with Fíli and collapse in bed amongst comfortable furs and familiar scents. Here, everything is stark and bright and oddly sterile. The gold shines, the gems reflect light from their multicoloured facets, the various trinkets poke out of mountains that would bury a dwarf with eager hands if a wrong movement was made. This place is dangerous, and everyone knows it. Everyone except for Thorin.   
  
The sound of clinking armour and heavy breathing is heard, accompanied by footsteps that stray as if their owner has stopped to stare at something for a short while. Fíli is tying the end of a braid when he looks to the side and sees his uncle, dressed to full regality with black and gold contrasting all over his body, sharp angles here and polished bits there. His crown sits upon his head and long ebony locks of hair are somewhat tangled in the crevices of his armor. Fíli absently notes his uncle's hair is turning grey, streaked with lightness where once had been a glorious mane as black as night.   
  
There is no greeting. Thorin waits for the full attention of his nephews. Kíli had been daydreaming of comfort and Tauriel lying beside him with her fingers in his hair, remarking upon how properly Dwarven he looked as he showed off his stubbly beard. A tug to one side of his head turns him to look at Thorin and he glances to Fíli for a moment, as he always does. Fíli is a strong, unwavering pillar of surety and protection. Just as Thorin had been.   
Kíli does not smile as Fíli regards his uncle coldly. From respect he stands - they both do, Kíli following his brother's lead with just a second of delay. Thorin notices. His eyes narrow.   
  
"Have you found it?" The King's question is predictable and he feels full of authority as he draws himself up to his full height of five feet and two inches. Fíli and Kíli don't need to exchange glances for they know it will arise suspicion. Sometimes they feel they can connect mentally, how close and understanding they are with each other.   
"No." says Fíli, and is suddenly faced with eyes that burn grey-blue like cold fire. Thorin is so close their noses could touch, yet are millimetres away from doing so. Thorin inhales and a nasty snarl stretches his lips over his teeth until his gums are bared and the scent of fear drives his blood pumping like a wild animal.   
"Why are you not searching? You have time to sit and _braid hair_ while war knocks at the door?"  
  
"There is no door." Kíli reminds him and Fíli wants to scream. Thorin's gaze zeroes in on his younger nephew and his eyes tighten as the look in them hardens. His broad fingers pinch a braid and draw it closer so he can examine the weave.   
"Why do you wear the braids of a prince?" hisses Thorin, now holding the hair in a fist. "You are not one. I am not your father."  
"You are the closest we have had all these years." says Fíli and he does not like where this is going, not at all.   
Thorin rebukes him as if the notion was a pestering nonsense spoken by a halfwit. "You are no successors of mine."  
  
He thinks to rant on how his own sons would not have been lazy enough to rest, how they would serve their King with utmost loyalty and was about to start his speech when Kíli interrupted just as he drew breath.   
"Our mother shared your blood. She could have been queen." Though not Thorin's sons, Fíli and Kíli are damned close and of legitimate royal birth. They have just as much right to the throne of Erebor as he does. But Thorin grows wrathful in a flash and jerks Kíli's head to look at him in a painful upward angle with a sharp tug to his braid.   
"YOUR MOTHER IS _**DEAD** **!** "_he screams and the harsh rumble of his voice echoes through the vast space with a broken high note at the end. A grin warps his menacing features. Kíli wants to cry.

"Get away from him." Fíli growls and looks like a lion with teeth grit and jaw set. In his eyes is fury, passionate and unbridled. He loves Kíli more than he has ever loved anyone before. He will give his life for him.   
Kíli remembers Dís, the soft dimpling of her cheeks when she smiled and the way she would keep Thorin in line with her frying pan wielding skills and remarkable strength. Their family had been small, but wonderfully close knit. When had it begun to unravel? Why?  
  
Thorin lets Kíli go. And with his open right hand he fiercely backhands Fíli with all his strength, the edge of his golden vambrace clipping his nephew's cheek. Fíli cries out and had not expected the force that throws him against a rattling slew of coins. High they were piled, glimmering and cold.   
The mountain begins to fall.


	2. Scale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yep there's more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for noncon, smut, running sentences

Kíli weeps beside the body of his brother in a small, discreet room kept from long hallways and curious eyes. The walls are stone, grey and blank. Bilbo is here and he looks down at the floor, a hand unconsciously drifting to his neck marked with blue. They are all marked, in some way. Kíli has an ache at the base of the braid he will never undo. His scalp is slightly reddened there but his hair has not been ripped out. Fíli has dark marks that will never heal, crescents all over his skin from the weight of thousands of coins having pressed down upon his fair face. Bilbo still can trace the imprint of Thorin's ring by his own nervously pulsing jugular.

Dwalin is also here and he silently shakes his head. He had promised Thorin he would protect Fíli and Kíli until the end of his days. He has failed. It is the past, and the present. Terrible and real. Unable to change.

The dead have no future.

Thorin lies amongst his murderous piles of gold. He is naked save for the crown perched upon his head and does not feel vulnerable in his exposure at all. He loves the feel of cool, precious metal against his skin, knowing that it is his, all his. Everything in this room belongs to him. Everything in this mountain belongs to him.

Thorin sits up.

He goes to find Bilbo.

 

The face of Erebor is lit with golden sunlight that streams through the broken, spotty clouds. Many elves watch during the day as shadows creep across chiseled patterns and jutting pillars - sometimes they can see a dwarf or two peering from the ramparts. Today it is Bifur who stares at nothing, his black and white hair fluffed everywhere like a lion's mane in the strong winds. He is calm and not thinking of anything in particular, and low clouds have descended from the mountain peaks to offer a little shade. A thrush flits past and lands a few meters away on the smooth stone wall, gaining the dwarf's attention. Curiously he looks at it and points, only to have the bird hop closer and perch itself upon his finger. His lips curve upwards in a smile. He has not smiled for decades.

Nori meticulously combs through every strand of hair on his head, making triangular points out of his thick, bushy hair. It comes together like rice and honey, sticking together and not really behaving in a conventional way. Still, he loves his hair. His brothers tell him he is beautiful, and it is a thing he holds close to his heart. Even now as he works, Ori is watching him with an adoring smile and absolute concentration of the care that goes into Nori's appearance. Nori grins at him and winks, but opens both eyes wide as the comb in his hand stills.

He has heard a scream, from the halls down below.

Bilbo writhes and the sound of cascading gold fills his ears. It is deafening and he drowns in the fluidity of it all, kept buoyant only by the frantic jerking motions of his hips. His eyes are wide and body shaking, light whimpers and moans spilling from parted red lips. Thorin has bitten him and he is once again marked, like some piece of property able to be bartered and sold yet reassured without true comfort that he is _precious_ to Thorin, that Thorin considers him _his_.

"Mine.." mutters Thorin, his beard scratching at Bilbo's tender skin. Colour blooms across the hobbit's pale, frightened face and even more so when Thorin tells him "I'm going to mine you... through and through. Plunder your every secret and take what I wish." Bilbo sees in his mind's eye Thorin hacking at his prostrate body with a pickaxe until his mutilated organs swim in a pool of blood. He whines with terror at the back of his throat that sticks like acidic glue. His throat is burning and the sensation is a lingering reminder of Thorin's choking hands. Those hands are groping him roughly, keeping him from sinking into the disturbed pile of coins as Thorin mercilessly fucks him raw. Bilbo's neck aches as does his back from the strain of keeping himself from resting for even a second.

"Please, Thorin..." he begs, only to receive a violent thrust angled up to a painfully sensitive place. "Ah!!"

"You will not... address your King... in such ways." Thorin's words are grunted and low, deep groans of pleasure interspersing his shallow breathing. At this point he does not care if Bilbo is swallowed up by the coins and left to disappear as Thorin reaches his peak. He is deserving of bliss and none would dare take it from him.

"Your... Majesty..." Bilbo gasps, and he can feel a strong pulse within him coupled with a shaky breath from Thorin. He can use this. He's out-talked a dragon, surely he can manipulate Thorin into mercy. He has to. There is no other way.

"If it pleases you.. I..ahh.. would like to take this elsewhere..." Bilbo manages to meet Thorin's eyes and he sees madness in the dwarf's gaze, for he is too far gone to even consider anything in Bilbo's favour.

"Why should I care what you like?" Thorin growls, "You shall take what I give you... here, and now."

Bilbo is exasperated and cries out in pain, frustration overtaking his fear.

"I have taken it for the past hour, I have.. um... endured your magnificent cock for so long I can barely take any more, and I would really appreciate if you-" Bilbo's nervous rant cuts off and his eyes roll back into his head, a thick-fingered grip having made its way around his length. Suddenly there is a weight on his face and his head dips beneath the broken surface of the coins and he is drowning, gasping for breath but something lodges in his throat and he begins to asphyxiate, whole body spasming around Thorin who growls as he slips out of Bilbo, spilling himself in streams of pearl white upon the Hobbit's disappearing body.

Bilbo is never seen again.

~

Thorin has developed a taste for the macabre. He threatens his company with increasingly creative punishments should they become lax in their search for the Arkenstone. Hyper-aware and clearly insane, he does not let a single dwarf rest. He kicks those who have passed out from exhaustion, growling at them to get up. Sometimes he screams at nothing.

Kíli is brave. He lets himself down the side of the mountain by a long rope, his body able to withstand the impact of his drop and roll on the ground. And he runs, fearful of his uncle's crossbow at his back. Dale looms ahead with its elven soldiers and fishermen lining the walls. He requests to see Thranduil and is stripped of all weapons before being presented to the Elvenking.

Thranduil is tired, and his heart hurts. He looks at Kíli with wisdom and sadness in his faded grey eyes.

Kíli tells him of what Thorin has done. He does not cry.

Thranduil permits him to stay with Tauriel awhile. He knows the dwarf will not last for long. For as distant as Thranduil felt towards Kíli, he could sense the burden upon his young soul. And he thinks of Thorin, wondering where it all went so wrong.

Thranduil pities the broken dwarf family just as he pities himself. He feels sorry for everything and everyone these days, because he is an elf with a compassionate heart and doomed to live forever. It pains him to see mortal folk go through such hardship and turmoil when at the end of it all, they will just die. It is not necessary to fight and come out victorious in a mortal life, Thranduil thinks. They will suffer, they will lose, they will love and they will die. And they will break the hearts of other mortals, who in turn will be gifted with soul-consuming misery of their own. Thranduil knows Tauriel will die when Kíli does. Another life will be lost.

Amidst his thoughts of death, Thranduil barely senses the presence of another nearby. It materialises as a hand from behind his right shoulder, holding a goblet of wine which he takes and drinks without question for the scent of poison was not in the air. Poisoning an elf was tricky business, since anything natural they could detect. Thranduil smells blood and sweat too close to his face for comfort. The hand that had given him his wine touches his silk-covered forearm, sliding up with enough pressure to ruffle the thin fabric. He is touched at his chest then neck, and these fingers are nimble with a bowman's callus.

"Bard..." he murmurs softly, "What are you doing?"

Bard is drunk and silver tears paint his dirtied cheeks.

"Making the most of my last night."

The weight of mortality crushes them both.


	3. Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for Durch_artist_wannabe who gave me the motivation to continue writing this little exercise ^_^

Bofur has a pile of gold in his hat. He is sitting in the shadows behind the forges which are still burning hot from the remnants of Smaug's fire and filled with many coals. The hat is balanced between his knees and absently his fingers trail through the little coins. Like glass raindrops tinkling down a sheet of steel, the sound is quiet and musical. It brings him peace.

He wonders briefly if these coins are worth anything in Dale. The thought is banished in an instant as he spots a hammer glinting in the distance, perched atop an anvil. He could melt these coins and forge a blade, pierce Thorin's blackened heart and make peace with the elves and Men. Maybe just the Men.

Bofur smiles quietly to himself and in his eyes a muted sorrow can be seen. And then his smile fades. He has made his choice.

 

Thorin is rolling around in his treasure hoard, laughing with glee. How he loves to be here! Surrounded by all that he owns with room for much more, Thorin wants an underground city of gold and jewels that he can live in with servants and subjects everywhere. He is a King. He has fought to reclaim his mountain. He deserves it.

Nobody will approach him. Sometimes this angers Thorin, other times he does not care.

Today, Thorin is carefree. It is the wrong day to be so.

 

Bard has a headache. His eyes are squeezed shut and beads of sweat prick at his furrowed brow. Thranduil's hand is gentle and smooth as it strokes his matted black hair.

"Do you regret what we have done?" he asks, only to be shushed with a hiss and clammy hand to the side of his face. Bard has never handled alcohol well. Sometimes he just wanted to forget.

Thranduil's eyebrows lower as do his eyelids, and he looks at the ground. Patches of dead grass untouched by last night's snowfall look up at him as if they would ask the Elvenking for sunlight, water, anything. The sun has hidden behind clouds for so long Thranduil is beginning to lose hope of any light at all. He bends down and runs his fingers along the ground, and the grass springs to life in bright green shoots. A few flowers grow and they are milky white with sky blue streaks painting their frayed edges. Thranduil's magic is beginning to weaken the longer he grieves for life not yet lost, the longer he stays away from the safety of his home.

He picks the flowers and they are immortal, just like him. He weaves them into a circlet and places it upon Bard's head, earning a grunt from the man. Bard looks as if he is sick, perhaps caught a cold, drank too much, won't survive for much longer.

Thranduil watches the fine hairs of the bowman's moustache tremble from his breathing. Slow, even breathing. In and out like the ebb and flow of an everlasting tide. One day it will stop, and the pool of life will run dry for the man Thranduil took comfort in on a stormy, lonely night.

Thranduil's fingers curl around the edge of a pillow. 


	4. Lack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh no there's moar

Tauriel sits with Kíli's head in her lap. She is silent, still save for the gentle stroking of her fingers through his matted black hair. His braids are tight and he will never undo them - not for anything in the world. It is his connection to his brother whom he cannot let go of. It prevents him from moving on, from deepening his connection with Tauriel. She has never braided his hair. She will not do so.

Kíli does not cry before his lover. He is a dwarf, strong and solid like a stone that cannot be squeezed for water no matter how hard one tries.

He will crumble instead.

The cracks are appearing.

 

Legolas stands tall and announces himself before entering his father's tent. He is polite for once and is too weary to be brash, forceful, demanding. Tauriel will not give him the love he yearns for. Thranduil has not done so for millenia.

He sees his father laying beside Bard, a pillow beneath his head and Bard's face pressed into the Elvenking's chest. Legolas frowns and goes to say something, but then sees the smile on Thranduil's lips.

Never has he seen his father look so peaceful. Bard is not breathing.

 

Dwalin has wrapped his thick arms around Balin's quivering body. They are hiding from Thorin, for it is their only hope of survival. Food runs low, and anything perishable is long gone. Dwalin has taken it upon himself to look after what remains of Thorin's company. His poor, tortured refugees from Erebor who are trapped in their own homeland and cannot leave even if they wanted to. Some are bound by honor. Others by fear. Many are losing their minds.

They cannot find them in the piles of gold.

The two brothers do not speak. Balin is a tender, emotional soul and he weeps for the loss through their minimal gains. Thorin is long gone. Several are dead. His body screams at him in hunger and he does not know what to do. There is a fierce ache pounding his skull like the strike of a mallet upon an anvil.

He cannot feel the left side of his body.

 

Thorin is still looking for the Arkenstone. Perhaps today he will find it, hidden beneath Bilbo's clothes who in turn is buried under mountains of coin. Or maybe the One Ring will show itself and bring ruin upon all of Arda. Thorin knows nothing more than his lust now. The gold shines, he feels no hunger, no sadness, just anger. Mania and rage. He is nothing more than that. But he is still the King. He picks up a silver-edged crown, and throws it away. It reminds him of Thranduil. With his green-grey eyes, sometimes overcast with quiet blue. The muted tones are reflected now in Thorin's face, in his dry lips and sallow cheeks.

His blood is freezing. And he does not care.

 

Bofur saunters along the halls of Erebor, whistling a merry tune. Energy surges through his blood and the flaps of his hat bounce about his head. In one hand he has an expertly-wielded sword of pure gold, slick and sharp for easy thrusts. Slices. Mm, carving an entire body up with his shiny new blade. He laughs then, and whirls around to point his sword at Bombur who had been hiding in a small alcove, trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible. Bombur's eyes are wide and bug out of his face as if they would jump out and run away.

Bofur leans in and gives him a light kiss on the nose. His sword is by his side.

"Today, we shall be free, brother."

Bombur stares at him.

Bofur smiles, and begins to cry.

 

Ori comes across Bombur and Bofur together, near the end of a long corridor flanked by tall emerald pillars. They are in the darkness, nothing to be seen but the shine of gold that Ori has grown to fear. It was a corrupting and terrifyingly beautiful thing. He'd not known it as well as the older dwarves. The edges of the path are lined with gold. Had they been plain, he would have missed his footing at some point and fallen over the open edge.

As he nears the two brothers, he hears sobbing and quickens his steps. Bombur cuddles Bofur's shaking form close to his warm body, holding him tight. The golden sword lay on the ground, its surface splotched with tears.

"What's wrong?" Ori asks with a gentle tone to his voice, bending to reach eye level with the dwarves slumped against the wall.

"I'm not a murderer... We're trapped...!" cries Bofur, and grips the thick length of Bombur's beard in anguish. Bombur merely shushes him softly and pats his head. He then looks to Ori, who is taken aback by the serious depth of those suddenly piercing eyes.

"I... I don't understand.." says Ori in a small voice, shifting back a little and looking to Bofur whose face is hidden "What do you mean? Where did you get this sword from-" A loud clang resonates through the hall and Bombur twitches as if stung by a wasp. Gravity has taken the unbalanced sword over the edge of the corridor and only after long moments has it hit the bottom of the deep cavern. Bofur looks up, eyes bloodshot and nose a little bruised.

Ori wishes he hadn't shifted so much.


	5. Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I thought I might adjust the pacing of this fic a bit ,u, 2spooki5u  
> This chapter is for Queenofshire405 :D

 Kíli does not want to go back to the mountain. Tauriel agrees with him that it is not safe, and though he has family still living there is not much use in trying to make amends.

They sit together a few meters from the gates of Dale, Tauriel on a flat portion of rock with Kíli a little higher. There are more rocks behind them, but Tauriel has a strange ache in her back and she cannot figure out why. Leaning against anything hard is too painful to consider.

Kíli is leaning over her shoulder. His nose pokes her in the neck, his light stubble scratches at her fair skin. She relishes in the sensation.

Rarely is she touched so close.

Tauriel is an outcast, and she knows it. She has rejected the King's son. She has obeyed her orders. And she has been branded an ungrateful, lowly Silvan by Thranduil who won't even look at her.

Kíli loves her. But he loves his dead brother more.

 

Thorin nibbles at a piece of gold. Gold is softer than most metals, right? If he could just have a taste...

Bah. His week of not having eaten anything is beginning to take its toll on his body. After passing out and waking to serious dehydration, Thorin realises he hasn't drunk anything but his own saliva in days. Reluctantly he leaves the treasure room but is wearing his regal armour combined with so much jewelry there is barely a dwarf to be seen beneath it all. If he must leave, he will take his treasure with him. When he returns, he will count it all.

He orders Dori to get him something to eat and drink. Looking as pessimistic as ever, Dori rolls his eyes and mutters that they have nothing. Thorin grabs him then but Dori fights back, for he is strong and hardy and will do anything to keep himself alive. Thorin is shoved right in the face by a broad palm and Dori towers over the fallen King. Thorin wonders when he had hit the ground. His head is spinning, he sees the darkness instead of gold. He snarls.

"Do not touch me." says Dori, his tone gruff and hands flexing. "If you want something to eat, you will have to leave the mountain."

"NEVER!!" Thorin roars, struggling to get up like a flipped turtle who'd had too much to drink.

' _What is this?!_ ' He is confused, and feels sick at the room which has begun to spin. Shadows creep at the edge of his vision and Dori's silver beard braids hang down before Thorin's face. They are both close, far too close. Thorin can smell Dori's blood and he wants to bite his nose off.

Dori sees the opportunity now and stands. He kicks Thorin in the side of his head, and the King cries out.

Thorin should not have left his treasure.

 

Thranduil sits in a dead, snow-covered garden. He is deep within Dale and spiralling fences box him into the small space. They are low enough for him to climb over, for his legs are long and hold great strength to jump. He is happy, however. Sitting here. There are no flowers, for they refuse to grow on this icy day. There is barely any grass to be seen, all brown and mushy beneath the thick snow. Bard's head is by Thranduil's shoulder and his shaggy black hair feels like the unraveling strings of a soft rope. The Elvenking's slender fingers touch him, run down those ebony strands and pick out slight threads of grey. Thranduil rips them out, hand clenched into a fist. And then he is relaxed once more, his pupils dilated and shapely lips smiling.

Everything is dead, so very dead. The cold keeps Bard from decomposing and Thranduil kisses him at will. The bowman is dressed in soft furs, his skin is coated with lightly fragrant oils. Of course Thranduil would be loathe to use all his personal things on his lover, but there were always more back home.

Legolas watches his father. He hates a dead man.


	6. Cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes the cracks begin to appear in everyone and things fall apart \^0^/

Thorin wakes. His eyes are cold and blue as he blinks once, twice, scrunches his face up and lets his eyebrows do the rest. He is uncomfortable, and it takes a while to realise where. His armour is gone. His clothes are gone. His nipples point accusingly at his captor, who stands in front of him with a smirk on his face.

Thorin is too shocked to speak.

The Dwarven King has a clean-shaven face, with several razor cuts by his cheeks and neck. Some are still bleeding. He has only just woken up and his face is pale, body trembling. Dori steps closer.

"What... what've you done to me, you... filthy.. dandy...?" asks Thorin in a hoarse voice so different to his own. His throat is dry, his arms are spread by either side of him and he looks like a martyr on a cross. Only he is sitting...? No, not quite. Each hand is tied to the sides of his throne. His legs are spread over the armrests, his ass hovers just centimetres above the seat. He is suspended and the sharp edges of the throne's chipped marble form dig into his naked flesh.

A piece of rubble is trapped beneath his thigh and with the weight he presses down upon it, it is the most annoying thing Thorin has ever known. Dori has put it there on purpose.

"It just won't do to insult me so."

Dori steps closer and smacks Thorin across the face. So abrupt and sharp it is, the sound reverberates off the throneroom's walls. Thorin gasps and shoots a fierce glare in Dori's direction. Dori is not there. He is a blur in Thorin's hazy vision, and now leans in from the left.

"You've been a bad King."

Thorin struggles and cries out in agony, the numbness of his forearms giving way to a surge of pain. There had been little blood flowing to his hands as they were high above his head, seeing as the back of the throne was quite tall. But now, he could feel. He did not want to.

A glance to his right tells him what exactly Dori has done. There is a thick rope coming out of the area just below his wrist. A hole has been made, and the rope scratches at inner muscle with many coarse barbs. It comes from between his radius and ulna, the two bones in his forearm and loops around. If he wants to escape, he will shred the cartilage at his wrist and pop the bones out of his arm.

Thorin cannot stop screaming, and Dori laughs.

 

/

 

Thranduil prays for the favour of the Valar. He has sat Bard next to a withered tree, and those dead eyes are watching. The refugees from Laketown are nowhere to be seen, as Thranduil's folk guard the perimeter of the courtyard. It is cold here, tall brick walls reach to the sky and turrets are formed around what used to be a garden. Where once was grass now lay snow, piled higher than the bricks used to outline square flowerbeds. Thranduil has a stick in his hand. He draws deep into the snow, walking in a circle. Now that the six-pointed star is complete and sealed, he throws dead leaves with runes painted on them in blood. They fall within the circle's edges. The preparations are complete.

"Hear my plea, Valar above!" he cries, throwing his hands up to the sky. Stormy grey clouds had begun to roll in as if they wished to see what Thranduil was doing. "There can be no life without death. I offer you this sacrifice in hope that you will bring my beloved from your halls, and let him remain immortal by my side for eternity." A quick glance to Bard, and Thranduil knows he is doing this right. Those soulless eyes glint with inner light.

It is the reflection from Thranduil's sword. With a smile, the Elvenking faces the circle. Takes a step in, further until he stands atop the man laying on his back in the center. The sacrifice is paralysed with such strong magic that he can do nothing other than stare and wait to die. Thranduil plunges his sword straight down. Alfrid's heart is cleaved in two.

The skies flash with angry lightning and electricity fills the air.

Bard is still dead.

 

 

Legolas stands with his back to the courtyard and keeps watch for any intruders. He is high up on the walkway above the heavily guarded arched entrance. Nobody can interrupt Thranduil, not even Legolas. His duty to his father is to give him this time alone, so he can find peace in blood and mad laughter. The Elvenking is shrieking at the sky, telling of how he will slay every living man until Bard returns to him.

Moments after he says that, lightning strikes the bowman. And Thranduil gasps. Hears the breath from pale blue lips, noticing the flicker of life behind unseeing eyes. The Valar are done with his shit. They hope he is happy.

 

Legolas sees many things from his position, chiefest of all Tauriel and Kíli spending time together in the distance. He cannot hear what is being said. Tauriel looks like a shell of her former self, no longer with back straight and proud. Hunched over Kíli's sleeping form, she strokes his hair. She has been doing so for three hours.

Legolas wonders why the dwarf sleeps so much.

His eyes narrow as Tauriel moves her hand for a split second. She presses a spot on her lower back, and sighs.

' _She is injured_..' Legolas thinks, but does not wish to go to her. Soon she will lose her mind or fade from grief. Maybe even both. That is what happens to those who reject the Prince of the Woodland Realm.

He smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My ideas are nonexistent so if you want to see something happen in this fic or have good ideas for future plot pls tell


End file.
